Tag Archives: shortstory

I kid you not, humans are dim-witted. Mine is particularly so. I swear, I do everything here.

Cooper jerked in fright. His body stiffened, wary at the prospect of impending danger. There...the sounds came again, sounding closer than before. Only now his keen hearing could also detect the shrill cries of animals. The cries sounded like animals squealing in the last throes of life.

‘The lass pined for her kin. The winds that blew, whispered messages from her ilk. By and by, she grew melancholy. Till one day...,’ Malcum paused and looked at the waters of the bay, ‘she found the skin Sean had hidden. That day, she transformed, dove into the bay and disappeared, never to be seen again.’

Author’s note –The world is a scary, unsafe place. We hear stories of brutal rapes happening everyday and yet we believe it will never happen to us...until it does. This story is dedicated to women who have lost their lives to brutal rape or who are survivors.

An unassuming, easy going lad, Sunny soon made friends, the dearest being Monty (or Mohinder) who lived a few Kothi’s down, in the lane. As different as chalk and cheese, the boys soon became bosom pals. While Sunny was shy and timid by nature, prim and proper in his British manner; Monty was mischievous, inquisitive and always keen to explore. A die hard Hardy Boys fan, Monty introduced Sunny to the world of mystery books and both boys spent many happy afternoons butting heads over mystery stories.

Your father rushes in with video recorder in hand, “Hey baby, hey sweetie...smile...smile for daddy. Yes, that’s right...oooh, yessss...like that.”

 This story was first published on Artoonsinn and was written to the following prompt. It was the most read entry for the event and secured my team the 1st place.  A modern day Robin Hood’s conscience comes to life (literally) and demands him/her to offload karma to the beneficiaries to …

He was the oldest man in the village. Hunched over on rheumatic bones, slightly deaf in an ear and leaning heavily on his wooden stick, he patrolled the village at nights. Most nights the village folk could hear the tap-tap of his cane as he ambled through.

PC Buckroo took his duties very seriously. On most days he could be spotted waddling through the hilly streets wheezing like a freight train coming through a tunnel. Yes, his allergies were that bad. It was an idyllic life except for the village rascals. The scamps were the bane of his existence. They followed him around, marching a few discreet steps behind, huffing and chuffing and pompously imitating his gait. The scene caused the villagers much amusement.

The quiet of the morning was broken by a ‘thud’ that echoed in the tranquil valley air like a gun shot. Then all was quiet again. It was 3 am. No one heard anything. No one stirred. No one rushed to investigate. Come morning, they discovered her. She lay in a crumpled heap, blood congealed around her mangled body. There were no suspects. She had been a woman madly in love, just a tad unhinged. Her possessiveness had bordered on psychotic control or so everyone had been told. So, suicide it was then. Not a homicide.